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  Forbidden by Faith

  Negeen Papehn

  FORBIDDEN BY FAITH

  By

  Negeen Papehn

  Copyright © 2018 Negeen Papehn

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  Edited by Amanda Roberts.

  Cover Design by Mibl Art and Tina Moss.

  All stock photos licensed appropriately.

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  Published in the United States by City Owl Press.

  www.cityowlpress.com

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  For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.

  Praise for Negeen Papehn

  “FORBIDDEN BY FAITH shows how family, love, and faith can collide, even in this modern age.”

  – Romance Author, A. K. Leigh

  “Much more than a love story…full of twists and turns as two lovers navigate their way through one of history’s oldest cultural divides.”

  – Barry Collier

  “An engaging story of two unlikely people coming together for love. This book is filled with twists and turns. Hard to put down!”

  – Renee Noy

  “A modern Romeo and Juliet. A sexy and gripping story about a perfect love that was never supposed to happen.”

  – Alison Ross

  “A little 50 Shades…A little Romeo & Juliet…FORBIDDEN BY FAITH is sure to keep you turning the page. Although after some of the pages, you may need to take a cigarette break (even if you don’t smoke!).”

  – Parisa Collier

  “I loved everything! The idea that true love can overcome all challenges, despite tight family bonds, stays with you long after the book is over.”

  – Leyla Dastranj

  “This book was my guilty pleasure, a true escape from reality as I got lost in the love story…the author takes the reader on a true journey. I didn’t want the book to end!”

  – Azi Amirteymoori

  For Elijah and Noah

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Additional Titles

  Prologue

  I push through the doors of the foyer and am hit by the scene unfolding before me. I’m unable to breathe, the air having left my lungs. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. There’s a bar fight at my wedding. I can hear the words in my mind, but I can’t comprehend their meaning. I’m standing still while everything moves in slow motion.

  I see a table fallen over on its side, glass decorating its edges, remnants of wine creating swirling patterns on the floor. I’m vaguely reminded of a painting I’ve seen before, but the title escapes me. A flower arrangement has been knocked over, purple petals splattered on the tiles, its beauty now just a memory. Little groups of guests are scattered around, worried looks on their faces. I see them look at me, lean in toward each other, whispering. Some look with sympathy, others with disdain. Directly in front of me, I see a larger crowd. I can’t see my way through, but the group is composed of my family. The groom is nowhere to be found.

  I hear someone mention my cousin’s name, something about a fight. I stand for a moment, baffled, wondering how one person could leave such havoc in his wake. I breathe. I take one more look around, pick up my dress, and head in for battle. I push my way through. The sight of my princess dress in tow parts the crowd like Moses parting the sea. I shove my way in until I am standing directly in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” I shout. “What is wrong with you?”

  My uncle comes up beside me and yells something at his son that I can’t comprehend behind the rush of adrenaline and savage anger coursing through my veins. I turn my attention to him.

  “Amoo, get him out of here!” I demand. Then, I just keep screaming.

  Before I know it, I’m yelling in Farsi. Words my grandmother used when we were kids that I’d forgotten I knew. All I’m aware of is the electric burn of anger that’s invaded my body.

  And just like that, I become airborne. I don’t see it coming. I feel two hands circling my waist, whisking me away into the air, through the crowd. I feel the air rustle the edges of my dress as if I’m floating. I’m gently placed on my feet. I look up to see Thomas standing in front of me. It takes me a moment to understand his presence.

  He looks at me, kindness filling his eyes when he says, “You’re not helping.” I reach out for him, but it’s too late. He turns, disappearing into the crowd.

  There’s so much noise, but I don’t hear any of it. I can only hear the deafening silence surrounding my shattering heart. I start to cry. What I want to do is get up on a table and scream into the crowd, Don’t you know what I had to go through to get here? Don’t you know there are people in this very crowd thinking to themselves that they were right all along? That we were doomed from the start? But my voice is lost before my thoughts can form around the words. All I keep thinking is, How can this be happening?

  Chapter One

  I hang up the phone. I really don’t feel like getting ready to go to this party, but I already promised Leyla I would, so now I have no choice. She’s been dying to introduce me to some of her new UCLA friends. I get dressed in some jeans and a low-cut yellow top, my dark brown waves bouncing against my bare back as I run down the hall.

  “I’ll be home late, Mom,” I yell over my shoulder as I rush out the door.

  I make the fifteen-minute drive to Leyla’s, trying to work myself into the mood. Shouldn’t a single twenty-four-year-old want to go out on a Saturday night? Especially to UCLA, where there would be a prime crop of Persian boys.

  Leyla comes running out before I’ve fully pulled up and jumps into the front seat, breaking me out of my thoughts.

  “We’re going to have so much fun,” she says, beaming at me. “You’re going to love these girls.” I try to smile at her as we make our way over to the west side.

  Once we arrive, Leyla grabs my hand and drags me around the room, introducing me to everyone she knows. Maya, the host, pushes
two solo cups full of some fruity concoction into our hands. I can smell the sterile tang of vodka as it touches my lips, feel the familiar burn as it makes its way down my throat. After a few more sips, I begin to feel a tingling sensation in my fingertips, signaling the start of a warm buzz. I smile at the feel of it.

  That’s when I see him. Out of the corner of my eye, his blue shirt catches my attention. I turn to get a better glimpse. He’s beautiful. He’s tall, with dark brown hair and a chiseled face. His hazel eyes are the warm color of honey, with flecks of green decorating his pupils.

  I discreetly watch him as he makes his way around the room, engaging in one conversation after the next. I notice the gait of his walk, the way he subtly favors his left, the bounce in his step. I watch him run his fingers carelessly through his hair, hear his laugh bellowing from the bottom of his belly, watch the sparkle in his eye as he speaks.

  Then, he suddenly turns as if he can feel the weight of my gaze. He looks at me, stalling for only a second, before he smiles. It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.

  I can’t help but smile back, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds before I have to look away. I can’t meet the intensity of his gaze, feeling a blush creeping up my neck. My heart begins to race, Leyla’s words becoming a blur I can’t keep up with.

  I turn to look at him again, but he’s gone. I try to discreetly search for him in the crowd but he’s nowhere to be found. It’s almost like he’s disappeared and I wonder for a moment if I’ve just dreamed him up. The disappointment hits me like a wave, but I try to hide it, currently locked in a conversation with Leyla and a few other girls I don’t really know.

  The music begins blaring as the DJ turns up the volume. The girls squeal and Leyla drags me toward the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. I notice the discoloration of the wood where the furniture used to be sitting as I’m swallowed into the crowd of moving bodies.

  I don’t see the handsome boy anywhere and begin to lose hope. Maybe he’s already left the party. The thought disappoints me further, but I brush it off. The night moves on and soon I’m carelessly whirling around to the beat of the song, enveloped in the blanket of my intoxication.

  Suddenly, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze resting on my shoulders. I look up and find him across the room, staring at me. His head’s cocked to the side, a thoughtful expression on his face as he studies me. The room falls silent, the rush of blood through my ears the only thing I can hear. My nerves twist into a knot in the pit of my stomach.

  Then, he smiles, that irresistible smile, and just like that, it all melts away. Before I know what I’m doing, I tilt my head, motioning for him to come join me. I’m relieved when he does. He doesn’t say a word, just begins to dance. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my hair, the heat radiating off of his skin. I can hardly breathe.

  This handsome stranger in front of me could be anyone. I don’t know his name, or who he is, but I do know that every time his arm brushes against my body, a surge of electricity runs up my side that nearly knocks me over. I’m mesmerized.

  I don’t know how many songs we dance to before he asks me if I want to go outside. I can’t speak, just nod and follow, locked in his trance. My heart’s beating uncontrollably against my chest, making me dizzy. Leyla winks her approval at me as I pass her, but I barely notice. Outside, he finds a quiet spot under a tree and turns to face me.

  “Hi, I’m Maziar,” he says.

  “I’m Sara.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sara,” he replies, pronouncing my name with the soft “A” sound like it should be. Although Sara is a traditional Iranian name, even my friends pronounce it the English way. It makes me smile.

  He’s twenty-four, like myself, about to start his second year of law school. My first thought is, Mom is going to love that. He confirms my suspicions that he’s also Iranian, and for a brief second I feel a rush of pleasure course through me—he’s Persian and a lawyer. But before I can get too excited, I take a deep breath and ask the ever-dreaded question for a Persian girl, “What religion are you?”

  To many people, this may seem like a strange thing to ask when you first meet someone. But to an Iranian girl, his answer will dictate whether I ever see him again.

  He looks at me, head tilted, eyes crinkled in thought. He’s not sure if I’m serious. When I give no indication that I’m joking, he utters the words I so desperately don’t want him to say.

  “I’m Jewish.”

  Again, the wave of disappointment hits me like a ton of bricks. I put out my hand to shake his. “It was very nice meeting you,” I say, and get ready to walk away…

  Chapter Two

  I was born in Hollywood, California, in 1981, at the blue Presbyterian hospital. I know it’s blue because Dad points it out every time we drive by. My parents got married in Iran when Dad was twenty-two and Mom was eighteen. They didn’t even get to go home together the night of their wedding. Dad was set to leave for the States the following week, and in an attempt to save my mom’s virtue, my grandfather refused to let them consummate their marriage until she met him in America. He figured it was better to be safe than sorry, just in case the crazy ordeal didn’t work out. You see, my parents’ love story deserves its own explanation.

  Dad’s family owned a school where his mother was the principal. My maternal grandmother was a teacher there. One day Dad and my grandfather, were doing some repairs. Dad took a break to stretch his legs and glanced down the street. There on the sidewalk walking toward him, was Mom. She’d come to keep her mother company on the short walk home. The way Dad describes that moment is pure love at first sight.

  He says he saw her and was awestruck by her beauty. “Who is that?” he asked. My grandfather told him, to which he replied, “I’m going to marry her.”

  In those days in that country, courting had little to do with what we define as dating. Getting acquainted with your future spouse consisted of a few meetings at her house with her parents present, and, if you were really lucky, maybe a group outing to a movie with all of her siblings and cousins. The pairing of a couple also had a lot to do with family status and worth. For this reason, my paternal grandmother was against their union. She did her best to leave no doubt about her disdain for Mom. In the end, their love prevailed, with Dad never giving in to his mother’s wishes.

  Once the two were married, he made his way to the States to go to school. One year later, when Mom had lost all hope of starting her new life with him, he called for her to come to America. I showed up two years later, with my brother Nima following eighteen months after that.

  My parents’ life was a struggle, to say the least. Dad worked multiple jobs to make ends meet while he went to school. Mom didn’t know anyone and barely knew the language; she had to fend for herself, taking care of us while Dad was away. His family alienated her, making her miserable, which in turn made Dad miserable. It’s a miracle they’ve been married for this long.

  Because of Mom’s experience with her own in-laws, my parents had always been open-minded about marriage. The only request I could remember them ever having was that I married someone Iranian so he could “speak the language.”

  Traditional religion did not hold much emphasis in my immediate family. Even though we were Muslim, my parents didn’t raise me under its pretenses. They taught me to be spiritual, the religious aspects going as far as believing in God.

  If I wanted to go into a Catholic church and light some candles, Mom would tell me to light a few for her too. If I felt like going into a mosque to listen to daily prayers, I could. Our beliefs formed around the commonalities of all religions, letting go of their details.

  We were the exception to the rule, however.

  Not all families felt the same way, especially in the Iranian culture. Practicing families rarely deviated from the expected, pushing their children to settle down with their own kind. Either Muslim or Jewish, they would rather their children marry someone of the same faith
, even if the person was a different race.

  Chapter Three

  I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm. “We’re mortal enemies, right?” he said, laughing. Even though we weren’t yet, I feared that someday we would be. Realizing I wasn’t convinced, he continued, “Hey, wait, I have no problem with your religion.”

  It wasn’t him I was worried about, I explained, but he assured me that his family would be fine. Even so, there was still that nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me I should turn around and run. I’d revisit that little voice frequently in the future and wonder why I’d ignored her.

  The rest of the night progressed uneventfully. No new life-altering information was exchanged. Maziar found his friends and we ended up leaving the party to get a bite to eat. We exchanged numbers at the end of the night.

  I’d never been the typical Persian girl, groomed all her life to find a husband. My upbringing had been quite the contrary. Mom had seen the struggles of being just someone’s wife. She’d spent most of her life rebelling against those restraints. She had pushed me to be a strong, independent woman.